The 26th Hunger Games
by Livilulu
Summary: This is the 26th Hunger Games, and I promise to make it as interesting and grammatically correct as I can! *lures with cookies*  Let the games begin!
1. Important Information

*does nerdy victory lap*

We are officially full! PLEASE consider sponsoring, even if you don't have a participating tribute.

Please don't skewer me if I kill off your tribute, 1-10 tributes **may** die during the bloodbath. I know that it's fun to root for your own tribute, but that's the way it has to be.

I will try to update **most days**, but on some days when I have various extra curricular activities, I may not be able to post, but I'll try!

**UPDATE~ **As of 1/1/12, we are "full"!

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><p><em><strong>Update<strong>_

Merry Christmas, for those who celebrate it!

Here is how sponsoring is going to work.

**Submitting a tribute is worth 10 points.**

**Posting a review is worth 5 points.**

**Answering a question correctly is worth 2 points.**

So, yes, if you post a review with a comment on the chapter and a question answer, you can get a total of **7** points.

I will ask a question most chapters, but not all. Most questions will be on the HG series.

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><p>I may eventually give those two nameless tributes a name, but for now, they are just "Bloodbath Tributes".<p>

**D1**

Rainbow "Rain" Baker

Chad Ripper

**D2**

Sydia Peaks

Leo Ausche

**D3**

Tatum Starlight

Graig Adling

**D4**

Elise Klein

Tod

**D5**

Faraya Argeneau

Tobias Shinsky

**D6**

Felicity McCartney

Ashby Winslow

**D7**

Rosemary Toomey

Colin Halter

**D8**

Alyson Clearwater

Damian Hill

**D9**

Echo Woden

Shazer Norman

**D10**

Monique Stockton

"Bloodbath Tribute"

**D11**

Tatianna "Tia" Caldwell

Wen Young

**D12**

Angel Dawn

"Bloodbath Tribute"


	2. D1 Reapings: Rainbow & Chad

**Rainbow Baker**

"Ugh, no, STOP!" I hear myself scream distantly, and I lurch up in bed, dripping sweat, and breathing heavily. I have had one of my nightmares again, and I immediately recognize it. I sit there for a few moments to calm by breathing, then wipe the perspiration off my brow, and slide my thin legs off my bed. I immediately notice my sore back, and groan.

"Round of applause for the crappiest bed in existence," I complain to nobody in particular, and drag myself to the door. Today is the day. I'm determined to volunteer, just to get out of this hole I've dug myself. My relationship with my parents is dismal, I've lost my sister, and my bed sucks. "Mom, where's my skirt?" I holler, and after a few moments, I get a reply. As usual, my mother sounds pissed. My constant poor mood is gradually rubbing off on her.

"On your windowsill! Did you even look?"

I roll my eyes, even though nobody can see me. I trudge back into my room, and "prepare" myself, even though that only consists of throwing my black, curly hair into a ponytail and pulling on the gag-inducing yellow, floral skirt and white blouse. I'm the first out the door, and I really don't care if my parents follow me or not.

I arrive in the square, and am met with the usual sight; huge, burly thugs practically drooling for the chance to go into the arena, and the vicious girls of District 1 giggling and gossiping, probably scheming the best way to seduce the other tributes. I am not one of those girls; never have been, never will be.

I hear a lucky 12 year old boy called, and then everyone scrambling to touch the bell that indicates the volunteer that will enter the arena. Naturally, it is a tall, thick, muscled older boy who flashily flexes his muscles when his name is called. I grin. That sucker is going down.

When the female tribute is called, I dash, and though it is close, I am the first to the bell. The next few minutes are a blur; my name is called, my arm is hoisted into the air, and a few noobs cheer, although most of the teenagers in this district resent me. I don't blame them; I don't deserve to be up here, but my need for the money and freedom outweighs my self-loathing. Well, I've finally done it; I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games.

**Chad Ripper**

_ Boing…_

I hear my knife leaping from my guiding fingers, landing expertly in my practice board, and I sigh. That's what I like to hear. I shrug my shoulders, loosening them, and jog to retrieve my knife. Sure, it was great that I stuck that, but all of the training in the world won't make a difference if I either don't make it into the games, or make some terrible throws in the games. However, I won't worry. I know I will win.

"Chad. Let's go," I hear my father from inside our house, which is clearly a house that belongs to a middle class family.

"Just getting in some last minute training!" I respond, knowing this will make him proud. My father nods, and we slowly, but surely, make our way to the square. Yeah, I'm probably going to volunteer, as I try to do every year. This means I have to be fast. As we walk, I stop at random intervals, stretching out my arms, shoulders, neck, and legs. I have to be loose in order to make it to the bell first.

While I shuffle to the "18"'s section, my father slowly sidles to the adults section, which more closely resembles a pen. The peacekeepers usually let out the parents of the selected tribute so they can congratulate, weep, or occasionally do a little jig, which believe it or not has occurred.

The boys, as per usual, go first. I have always figured this has something to do with male superiority, but I'm not sure. I ready myself, positioning my toes even with the other guys in my section, who look almost as aggressive and determined as I. As a name is called, I dash, and just prevent myself from illegally shoving a competitor away from me.

I reach the bell first.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Chad Ripper, your District One tribute!" our representative exclaims, and I flashily flex my muscles. The more intimidated the competition feels, the better. The intimidation factor is what I'm going for, and I feel it is going to propel me to victory.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, guys! Please review, let me know what I'm doing well, what could use improvement, and what you think I should do in the future!<strong>

**More coming soon...**


	3. D2 Reapings: Sydia & Leo

**Sydia Peaks**

I sit, kneeling at the water's edge, cupping the crystal clear liquid in one hand, than transferring it to the other, mystified. There are very few public water sources in District 2, and it really is a shame, since I find them to be so capturing. Everything about our district is supposed to be dark, dangerous, and hostile, but what about it's residents who really aren't? We're like butterflies in a cocoon that we can't escape from.

My brief happy moment is rudely interrupted by a thought of the reapings, and my facial features instantly grow hard and cold. I suppress a growl, and stand up, letting the water swiftly drop from my hands, and splash back to where it came from.

I've always hated the games. Not many know this, but my sister died a few games back, and since then, I've had revenge bubbling up inside me, just itching to burst. I know that it is irrational, but I want to make District 10 suffer for killing off Samantha. Not many people in my district have this problem, so I try not to mention it, even around Daria.

My parents never have to remind me to make my way to the district gathering place, so I slowly begin to trudge down the infamous path that leads to the gathering place. I take my time, for I am early, as I am every year.

Since I have nothing to think about, my thoughts leap to how I look. I raise a strand of my light brown, stringy hair, and sigh. I never had a chance to tie it back, today. What if I enter the games without it tied up?

_C'mon, Sydia, now you're just being irrational._

I see my twin brother, Riles, in the male 16's section, but I don't acknowledge him. He and I have off and on days, and this is definitely an off day. Instead, I find Daria in the crowd, which is not difficult given my height. We exchange knowing looks. We're both going to try to volunteer this year. We've both discussed our reasons why.

"Welcome, welcome!" our sugary sweet representative coos at us _lowly district people._ The Capitol people like District 2, but this woman certainly does not. I tune out the rest of her meaningless speech.

"And now, we shall mix it up a bit, and have our lovely lady reaped first!" she says, as if it's the best thing in the world. _Oh bloody joy._

"Moira Lynch!" the woman has barely any time to get the name out before we're off. Daria and I run side by side, so close we could be touching.

We seem to be miles away from anyone…

Daria is inching ahead of me…

_So close…_

Just before I reach the bell, somehow Daria reaches back, takes me hand, and yanks it foreword, slapping it onto the bell just milliseconds before any other girl. I look back at Daria as my name is being exclaimed. Words can not express how grateful I am to her. She knows that I truly need this; revenge.

**Leo Ausche**

I always take notice when my muscles ripple, and I admire them as I place a basket of muffins on display. As per usual, I detect the faint sound of giggling coming from the gaggle of girls in the corner of the shop, soft as mice squeaking. It's fun to show off for these types of girls; I know they love me, but as soon as the show's over, I never have to see them again. At least, that's what I hope for.

It can be fun working in the bakery, on occasion, but for the most part it's very stressful. I turn around and pick up one of our more delicate knives, expertly slicing the lemon squares into bite-sized pieces; a delicacy, more commonly found in District 1, but my parents just got their hands on the recipe, and they're all the rage.

"Dad, d'you want powdered sugar on these?" I ask, just loud enough for him to hear from the back area, and I hear him sigh.

"Do what you think is best, son," he says, and I gulp, slowly picking up the powdered sugar jar. See, for me, I'm not working in the bakery because of anything silly, like a love of baking. That's not a very manly reason. I like to think that I work in here because I want to make my family proud, and prove to them that the bakery would be in good hands if they suddenly dropped dead.

"Hun, we have to _go_," I hear my mother's voice before I see her, soft as silk. She comes through the doorway, and guides my shoulder in the direction of the door. My mother always makes me feel calmer, which unfortunately means that when she's pissed at me, she speaks in a disappointed, soft voice that means something yelling couldn't achieve. Heeding her advice, I slip off my apron and hang it on a coatrack at the door, slapping my hands at my pants to dust off the flour. As soon as my family begins to exit the door, I hear at least a dozen chairs scrape across the floor, a clear sign that their occupier was getting up. It was as if they were waiting for my family, or me, to leave. Hell, they probably were.

I walk behind my parents, just staring at the ground. I've been contemplating volunteering for the last few years gone by, and I think that this is finally the year. If I won, the riches the family business would reap would be magnificent, and my parents would never again doubt my ability. As we arrive, I can tell that some girls are glancing at me. They probably want to know if I'm going to volunteer. Well, I'm just going to have to keep them guessing.

I'm running a bit low on friends lately, but really, who needs _them_ when attractive females are around? I just stand there, staring at the scene unfolding on the stage before me; important looking people bringing out large fishbowls stuffed with paper. I don't know how many times my name is in there, and it doesn't matter, though it's probably very few. After I successfully volunteer, my name will be the hottest in District 2.

Some average looking girl successfully volunteers, and I sneak a wink at her. I bet she'll be easy. I don't even hear the boy's name who is called, and it doesn't matter. I take off, and am soon ahead of most. I reach for the bell…

…and notice a boy overtaking me. I growl at him, and speed up. Just when I begin to give up, he's going to win, he trips. I glance at where his feet once were, and suppress a chuckle. One of the girls from the bakery has tripped him, while standing to the side. I leap at the bell, and am the first to reach it.

All I notice are the girls cheering, and my parents. They both look horrified. Why could that possibly be? I'm about to supply them with everything they could ever dream of. What's the worry?

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><p><strong>Lol, Leo cracks me up. What do you guys think? Keep the reviews coming, I really appreciate the input!<strong>

**Question: What material does Katniss use to conceal her and Peeta's cave shelter in tHG?**


	4. D3 Reapings: Graig & Tatum

**Graig Adling**

"UGH!"

I grunt as I pull myself up onto a thick tree branch, using nothing but my arm muscle. I look up, to be greeted with an endless array of branches, sticking out as far as I can see. This is what I like, what I'm used to. People in my district think I'm crazy, for wanting this. That's just because nobody in my district really gets my bloodthirst. My parents don't even _really _get it, though they do try.

The Capitol has been completely unfair to our district. Really, Districts _1, 2, and 4_ get all of the advantages? I suppose nobody in the Capitol knows how to count. Besides, how would the Capitol get around without us? We make all of their fancy cars, computers, and limousines. What do they give us? Tesserae?

I want to be like those districts. I feel like some kind of "rebellion" is useless. You see a bunch of scrawny little pipsqueaks running through the streets yelling "rebellion!", and the next thing you know your entire district has been nuked. The Capitol can do that. No, the most efficient way of changing things, I feel, is showing the Capitol exactly what they're missing. I've been training since I hit three feet tall, sometimes in secret, sometimes in the plain view of the haters. Don't they see I'm doing them a favor?

Looking down, I notice exactly how far I've come. I must be thirty feet above the ground. Trees are scarce in this electronics-based district, so training with one is a real rarity. I take advantage of my newest find, and train with it the day of the reapings.

I always arrive an hour early, just to scout out the competition. However, this year, my last year to volunteer, I'm really going to do it. I'm thrilled, to be honest. I descend to about fifteen feet, then jump off, and land with my knees bent, dirt flying around me, trying to seem epic for my own personal amusement. My just-above-shoulder-length golden hair flaps in the wind, and as I straighten up, I cannot help but chuckle. _I'm awesome, and I know it._

As I head for the town square, as usual, I tower over the average twig that inhabits my district. They all gawk at me, as they should. I walk with confidence, moving my shoulders in a rhythmic kind of way, which according to legend, used to be called "swag", but that term is useless now.

I arrive late, but I don't care. It's not like they can punish me once I've volunteered. It would be bad publicity for the Capitol, and that just wouldn't _do._ I shove my way through the male 18's crowd, which is comparable to shoving through a field of daisies. They are moveable, short, and easily squishable.

I see that a 12 year old squirt has been reaped, which just solidifies my plan. Nobody calls to volunteer, and I see the boy's eyes watering as his parents let it all out. Just before his arm is raised as the final male tribute, I clear my throat.

"I would like to volunteer, thanks," I announce, calmly and coolly, and step out into the aisle. Graig Adling has just saved the day, just as he will save the day for the entire day, I think, as I take the stage. I see my parents, rolling their eyes, and burying their heads in their hands. Sure, they may miss me for a little while, but when I come back home, rich beyond their wildest dreams, they won't have any regrets.

I raise my eyebrows at the escort, daring her to comment on me. She's a plump woman wearing an unflattering suit, who really looks like an overfed deer in headlights. Clearly, she's stunned by my undeniable amazing-ness. Even her hair looks positively stunned, neon green and sticking up at weird angles. Typical Capitol woman; always trying out the newest thing, and miserably failing at it. I give her a little smirk as I turn around to see the boy I as good as rescued running back to his parents. Soon, the people of my district won't be afraid, they'll embrace the games as something they cannot change, and will all be prepared to enter the arena with the best chance of survival. At least, that's if I have anything to do with it.

**Tatum Starlight**

_"_Just a liiiiittle bit longer…" I assure my sister, Moria, as I adjust my canvas. It's her birthday today, and since the reapings take so long, I decided to get the frame of her birthday portrait at least on my canvas before we head out. Moria might be half asleep by the time we get back. She looks so much like me, in fact, exactly like me, that it is not difficult to get down her posture, facial features, and other notable factors of her appearance. I mix together a few colors to make her skin color, a honey tan, and her long, golden, sun-kissed hair which I have tamed into two youthful pigtails. In fact, without the pigtails, she could be mistaken as me.

As I paint her bright, happy smile, it makes me smile, until we're both giggling. Oh, how I love my little sister. The last touch before I put down my brush are her brown eyes, not doe-like like mine, but fine and dainty, with long lashes. Many people look to the eyes and height difference to tell us apart.

"Alright, _baby bear_, time to head out," I say, using my old nickname for her fondly. She giggles, and hops down from her little stool, which was the absolute shortest stool in Panem, and yet it is too big for her.

I am clad in a knee-length yellow frock that took me about two seconds to throw on. I liked to look good, but it's the _reapings, _and I don't think many are really paying attention to the floral detailing on your skirt.

Moria, however, spent ages picking out her adorable first reaping outfit. Indeed, she dresses as if it's a celebration. We can't wear anything too fancy around here, for District 3 doesn't have the "privilege" of being one of the Capitol's favorites, but it is charming nonetheless; soft blue with a little lace decorative apron that our mother made a while ago. I must admit to myself that we both look quite charming; a bit too charming for such a dismal occasion, perhaps.

"Tate, let's go!" my sister urges, with a slight hint of whine in her voice. I can tell she's anxious, but not the good kind of anxious. I feel a bit bad for her, but she'll eventually get used to it, and I swallow down my worry. Moria and I clasp hands and head to the door, where my parents and my slightly older brother, Warren, are waiting. He looks nothing like my sister and I, but more like my father, with mousy, brown hair and a fair complexion. Warren is leaning against the front door frame, looking thoroughly disinterested, while my mother is looking at my sister and I as if we are the cutest things she has ever seen. The hand holding gets mothers every time.

My dad is the one who initiates our departure. He won the games a few years ago, but has since legally changed his name and faded into oblivion. He doesn't talk about the games, since the death of my old boyfriend in the games is still fresh in my mind. He was a secret from my parents, Tyler, when he was reaped, and I knew they wouldn't like him. When he died, I had no one to go to, to talk to, and finally broke down, telling my parents. The wound has been healing ever since.

Still, my father retains an interest in the games, and has a mild case of PTSD, treating me as if I could be reaped at any moment. He takes off out the door and out onto the dusty, dirt road leading up to our mid sized cottage. Exchanging glances, we three siblings take off after him, my sister and I laughing as we race, my brother dead serious, intent on beating us. My mother just goes at her own pace behind us, knowing we wouldn't go out of her sight without waiting for her to catch up.

We go on like this until we reach the town square- running awhile, waiting for mother, running a while, waiting for mother. When we finally reach the square, our dresses are covered in dust, and our mother fusses over us, brushing us off. I appreciate my mother doing it- she still does my hair most days. I sort of miss being younger, relying on someone, like Moria can still barely get away with. Really, my mother does it best.

We go our separate ways, my brother joining my parents, and Moria and I joining our own age groups. I meet up with my friends, Annalisa and Dylan, who immediately greet me with sarcasm directed at our escort.

"M'am, have you noticed the toxic spill on your head?" Dylan jokes, referring to the escort's neon green hair, and I giggle a little bit. He can talk, because red hair is surprisingly common in this district, and Dylan is example A for red hair. Dylan is separated from Annalisa and I (by a rope), but we still have the same sense of humor. Normally, I would feel uncomfortable with such jabs, but this rediculous Capitol lady has clearly tortured her hair so much that she probably doesn't care if some "lowly District 3'ers" such as ourselves joke around about it.

A small boy is reaped, and I suppress a gasp as he is volunteered for by a burly, blonde older boy who I distantly recognize from my year. His name is something like Craig, Gary, I can't quite recall…

"And now, for our female tribute," the escort announces, in her annoying Capitol accent. "Ladies and gentlemen…" she draws a name from the enormous fishbowl, "your 26th female District 3 tribute, Tatum Starlight!"

As soon as she announces the tribute, a collective gasp spreads through the crowd. However, it has barely even registered with me. I instantly feel a hand clasp my dainty wrist, as stars erupt in my field of vision. No. This is just too unlikely. My father reaped, then me? This stuff doesn't just happen.

"Tate," I hear someone my subconscious identifies as Annalisa whisper in my ear, "go on," she says, her voice shaking. Robotically, I put one foot in front of the other, and miraculously, end up on the stage. I am thinking thoughts to try to warm myself up to the idea that I am a tribute.

_Tate, you're probably going to die._

_Tate, that really just happened. For goodness' sake, snap out of it!_

_Tate, the toxic spill lady is reaching for your hand…_

"Ladies and gentlemen, Graig Adling and Tatum Starlight!

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><p><strong>Phew, they just keep getting longer! Thanks for your input, I really try to put it into consideration.<br>I do realize that rocks was a popular answer for the question. The answer I has in mind was vines, but I understand there may have been some confusion. I'll try to pick a more specific question :).**

**Q: What color eyes does Glimmer have?**

**By the way, Graig is my own tribute, and I assure you, he won't win :).**


	5. D4 Reapings: Elise & Tod

**Hey guys!**

**Sorry for the long wait, a family member has been in the hospital (he's okay now) and has just been released. He's fine, but I thought he might need some entertaining, and put down the laptop.**

**Anyways, I've had a ton of time to ponder over these two, so I hope you like them!**

**The answer to last chapter's question: Emerald eyes.**

**Q: From which district was the boy who coughed blood in Katniss' face when the games began?**

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><p><strong>Elise Klein<strong>

I sit, perched in a tree, crouching low, observing the crowd below me, waiting for the perfect target. One of my pastimes is sitting in this tree, my favorite tree, and just watching the passersby, keeping a sharp eye out for obnoxious looking people, or people I don't like, or older kids who walk as if they are better than everyone else.

_Oh yeah? _I think. _You're so much better than me, are you? Well, we'll see about that._

I reach into the little satchel I carry about my shoulder, and withdraw a small handful of cheap rubber bands. Belonging to a district that the Capitol favorites has it's advantages, and cool stuff is one of them. I learned how to accurately shoot these suckers a long time ago, and have loved it ever since. It really is a quite efficient way of training, helping my aim.

I observe my wide spread of victims, some walking, some running, some jogging on the busy rock-paved road below me. Some are laughing, some are in groups, some are frowning, some are alone. However, none of them really _stand out _to me. This time, they all have one thing in common; they are all heading to the reapings. This lowers my standards a bit. Now, there are no sickeningly cheery groups I just have to shoot at, and there are way more unhappy single people and groups, which makes it less of a find when they do come along. Now, I'm watching for people I don't like, and odds are I'm going to find one, since the reapings are required.

I delicately balance the rubber bands on a branch nearby, but pluck one out of the pile, and pull my black hair back into a sloppy mess I like to call a bun. As long as it is out of my eyes I am okay with it. As I pull my hands away from my head, my fingers brush my nose, and something strikes me as odd. My skin feels strange. I run my fingers over my nose, and notice that it feels flaky, and some of my tan skin is peeling off.

"Damn it, stupid sun," I mutter to myself. I must have stayed in the sun too long. Well, that's what happens when all your district seems to do is fish, fish, fish. The fishing really never ends.

Then, I spot them. They're the popular clique in my school, the group that has long, flowing blonde hair and like to "accidentally" coordinate their outfits to look like a group of mermaids. They giggle and gossip and flirt and sabotage like there is no tomorrow, and I can't wait to shoot at their foreheads. I ready my rubber band, moving it to the middle of my eyes and draw it back as far as it will go, aiming it at the back of one of the girl's heads. They are having a rock-kicking fight, and laughing as the rocks disturb elderly ladies.

_"Ugh, _old people are so _weird_," one of them says, loud enough for me to hear, and they all giggle hysterically. That does it, for me. I like fair game, though a game that I could potentially win, and taking a jab at an elderly lady is _not_ okay.

I release the rubber band.

"OWWW!" the girl squeals, and turns in a circle to see if anyone saw what just hit her. Then, as if nobody heard her the first time, she exclaims again. "OWWW!" I roll my eyes, and as I do, the girl starts clutching her head, then looking mortified when she messes up her hair. At this point, I am muffling my own cackles of laughter.

"Did _anyone_ else see that?" she squeals, and her posse all shrug, then turn around, beckon for her to follow them, and continue down the rock road.

I am so overcome with laughter that I double over on my side, lying down on the branch. However, this is a bad idea. I lose my balance, and begin to feel myself falling. I claw at the branch as I begin to topple off of it, and my fingers just barely catch it as the rest of my body swings over the side. My rush of adrenaline comes and goes. I take a deep breath, get a good grip with my left hand, and with my right hand, just manage to snatch my rubber bands before I fall, and land on my feet.

The precession of people down the road is starting to thin, and the sky is growing more of a grayish-blue than dull blue, which clearly means it is nearing reaping time. I take off down the road, bumping into fair game and gleefully dodging weaker subjects. However, if I judge from behind that a male subject is attractive, I try to bump into them more playfully than aggressively. Truth be told, I'm a bit obsessed with guys.

I finally make it to the spot our escort likes to call our "gathering place", but really is just the first and mist insignificant district pond they could find. They then built a fake waterfall there, and our escort stands at the top of the waterfall, which they've substituted with a large, concrete platform where they conduct the reapings. The people of the district stand around the edges of the pond, separated like slices of a pie.

This year, it is a bit damp, and as I arrive, the ground grows muddier and muddier, until even I, one of the nastiest girls in District 4, am cringing. I leap from grass clot to grass clot as I see others just sinking.

_Oh, I am so clever, aren't I?_ I think to myself, as I manage to emerge from the worst of the mud pits relatively unscathed. It was a few more minutes until the reapings started, as I had to endure many varieties of squeals, and even some suspiciously masculine squeals, which gave me a good laugh.

"Hello, charming and engaging citizens of District 4!" our sickeningly thin escort chirped. Every year she made up two new (totally inaccurate) adjectives for we citizens of District 4. She's just buttering us up for the feast. However, most of us like it, including me. It's the games, my dream career! And yes, I do consider it a career, because not only will I make money from them when I win, but after I win, I will probably be a mentor for the rest of my life.

"And now, it is time to reap our lucky lad!" the mentor exclaims, and it is then when I really examine her. She is basically a bag of cells, not a muscle to be seen, and not a curve to be noted, although she is quite short. She has hot pink hair with what looks like carefully placed zebra stripes marking every inch of her skin. She really is quite an oddity, but I am fascinated with these kinds of people. After all, their kind are the ones who are going to be bringing me back out of the arena.

As usual, there is a race for the male volunteer, and the guy with the longest legs wins. Their race is a bit boring; usually somebody trips, or someone is sabotaged. That's just the way it works in this competitive district.

I shoot dirty glances at the girls who I think will give me a run for my money in this race, and ready my rubber bands in my pocket. Yes, this is how I will sabotage them. Sabotaging isn't supposed to be noticeable, because though they know it goes on, and kind of like it, District 4 officials are technically supposed to bust us if they catch us, say, shooting rubber bands.

I think of anything but what is going on around me, of myself and my friends racing around another local pond, and how fast I can go.

"Dane Smaldone!" everyone's favorite skeleton squeaks out, and I take off, barefoot, which in a way gives me an advantage. I wait until we're halfway there before taking notice of the girls around me. I am really only one of two girls who has any shot at successfully volunteering, and I blink at the other one before swiftly withdrawing my rubber bands from my pocket, and shooting one at her. It hits her in the ankle, and it's just that moment of hesitation that I need.

I get there first.

**Tod**

"Tod, what do you think you are doing?" my mother squawks, and I roll my eyes. That woman always has some kind of demand I haven't filled, and it looks like today is not an exception.

"Tod, you promised you would be an hour early to the reapings, and you've already wasted _ten minutes!_ I bet some other woman's little boy is already out there, stretching! And you know what, Tod? That little boy is going to _win_!" she squeaks shrilly, and the volume of her voice is so disturbing that I immediately sit up, and am greeted with my ever-clean but still disgusting room. This makes me lighten up a bit. My mom has always been used to money and riches, and ever since my dad died, has had to make do with nothing. She's even offered to pay me so she could clean my room, just that one time.

She enters my room with a bang, her light brown hair frazzled and her clothing wrinkled, which is rare for her. She glances at my room, and glances at me. Luckily, I had dove out of bed when I heard her footsteps, so she's probably under the impression that I'm doing something productive. I glance down at myself; my feet are caked with dirt, I smell like fish, and my clothes are wrinkled. Even I, one of the messiest people I am aware exist, don't like it. My mother gives a disapproving tisk with her tongue, turns on her heels, and is finally out of my room.

To get ready, all I do is (fully clothed), spread soap on my arms and then wash it off, wash off my feet in the family tub, and then spread soap on them.

_At least now I can tell the color of my skin_, I think, observing my tan legs in contrast to my pale feet. Well, fishermen wore shoes, but pants would be rediculous. After that, I run a brush through my hair, one stroke, and I'm done.

After that, I have all of five seconds to collect myself before my mother swoops in, taking me by the shoulder and marching my out the door.

"Mom, seriously, I'm good," I say as we cross the threshold, and my mother sighs, letting go of me. I stretch out my arms, loosening my shoulders from my mother's icy grip.

It's then that I see Greg, his wife, and his two young children step out of their house. They're neighbors of ours, but it really doesn't feel like it. He's really more of a father figure. In fact, if not for the difference of my light brown hair and his red hair, his pale skin and my tan skin, we are so often seen doing father-son activities that we may be mistaken as such.

"Oho!" Greg exclaims as he sees us. and his face lights up. It makes me pleased to make Greg happy, and I want him to be proud of me, as a son would feel about his father.

"Wait up, wait up!" his two equally pale redhead kids exclaim. They both run at us in top speed, and while I think it's kind of cute, a glance at my mother confirms that she's disgusted with the amount of dirt the kids are kicking up.

Nevertheless, our families walk together to the reapings, since their eldest, Chadwick, just turned of the age to be reaped. Greg and I talk about my latest training session cordially. He knows I really don't want to volunteer, but it would break my mother's heart if I didn't.

We all arrive, and go our separate ways. My mother gives me a little wave of encouragement, and rather than shoving her way through the crowd, she lifts her skirt, narrows her eyes, and just walks straight through it, daring anyone to block her path. I chuckle, and shuffle into my section.

Our stick-thin zebra (the politically correct term is _escort, _I had just recently been informed) tells us that the boys will go first. I survey my competition. There really isn't any, which is a bad thing. Every year, part of me hopes that another boy will beat me, and so far, that's been the case. This year, though, I don't think that's going to be happening. They're all scrawny twelve year olds who are just beginning their training, or 18 year olds who's trainers have clearly given up on them.

I notice myself blinking erratically, as I always do. This is bad, since my prediction is I'm going to successfully volunteer, then I cannot show signs of weakness.

"Chadwick Brenner!" our escort calls, and I do a double take. Not Chadwick! He's one of Greg's kids, and I am about a second late when the race starts.

I'm finally off racing, although I am far behind the rest of the racers. I notice, however, that I am going at a faster pace. I think of little Chadwick, who would be thrilled to know that he helped me volunteer. This motivates me to run faster, faster…

I reach the bowl first. They wait until we've all caught our breath before everyone's favorite human and zebra cross came over and lifted my arm like it was a dumbbell, huffing and puffing. Personally, I didn't need to catch my breath, so I just looked at my mother and Greg, who both looked proud of me, Greg with a hint of worry. However, my attention did not stay on them for long,

I was distracted as the race for the female volunteer began. It seemed that, from my view on the stage, I was the only one who saw a girl brandish a handful of rubber bands, the only one who saw the girl next to her falter, therefore allowing that girl to win. Normally, I would have been shocked, but I was too distracted by the girl in question.

She looked to be about my age. How had I never seen her before? I had little friends, but I thought I was aware of everyone in my year, so I could become their friend at a moment's notice. In any case, she was one of the prettiest girls I had ever seen. When she won, she came close to me, barely even noticing me, and shook her jet black hair out of her perfectly messy bun. I couldn't stop gaping.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Tod and Elise, your District 4 tributes!" zebra lady called, and that's when it registered. I may have a tiny little thing for this girl, but she would have to die if I was ever to see my mother, Greg, or the kids Chadwick and Bonny ever again.


	6. D5 Reapings: Faraya & Tobias

**Faraya Argeneau**

"Faraya, your dad's home!" I hear my mother call, and my eyes grow wide. Unfortunately, I am in the middle of stuffing myself with a mouthful of eggs, so I force myself to swallow them while I get out of my seat.

"_Uuuuuugh_," I groan. My teeny little body isn't used to being stuffed with food like this, but my body is just going to have to suck it up. My dad's home. The family I have left takes ultimate priority.

"Awh, _shi….._" I carry off cautiously as I hear a snap, and dozens of little _ping_'s as I'm running down my family's creaky, wooden hallway. I come to an abrupt halt and look at the area around my feet. The pearl from my necklace has fallen off, and is rolling down the hallway.

"No, no, no, now _now…_" I mutter as I chase after it, making a diving save to stop it from rolling under our kitchen table, which is more like a block of wood with an inch of space under it. Once the pearl was under that, there was no returning.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I slip the pearl onto my silver chain and fasten the chain around my neck again, as it always is. I'm very protective of this necklace; it's all I have left of my brother. We found the pearl one day while on a trip to District 4, and he stole an oyster from a pile. They had apparently not yet checked the inside. While we had only wanted oyster meat, we found this beautiful pearl. He thought it was icky and girly, so he "bestowed it upon" me. I've kept it around my neck every since, especially after what happened.

I continue to delicately trot down the hallway, take a right, and _BAM!_ I run smack into my dad.

"Daddy!" I squeal, and I give him a long hug. He smells a bit burned and dirty, but I bet he's gotten a light shock a few times from working with so many wires. He hugs me back until I simply cannot take the smell, and I withdraw, trying to conceal my disgust. I've gotten pretty good at concealing my emotions over the years.

See, the last few years have been pure misery. After my brother died a few years ago, I've been a bit… optimistically challenged, as I like to refer to it, but that's not how my peers refer to it. I'm that _weird, depressed_ girl who's been without friends for so long that everyone's afraid to start now. That's fine with me. I don't need people my age in my life, just my family.

My mother feels the same way as I do, but she's got my dad, one of the cheeriest people on this planet. I'm pretty sure he's the sole reason this family hasn't completely collapsed.

Then, reality hits me like a tsunami, and I take a deep breath. It's reaping day. The day that completely ruined my family, and tonight will be the three year anniversary of the night my family sat, huddled around a fire, crying our eyes out. The night we knew our lives were never going to be the same.

It was completely silent in that hallway for a few excruciating moments, until I cleared my throat.

"Well I'll just go get dressed, then," I say, and awkwardly slide out of the hallway, trudging up the steps and to my dark, dingy room. I throw on a gray dress with yellow accents, said to emanate electricity (but is really quite ugly). I then grimly make my way to the door, the biggest frown I've ever managed stuck to my face, as if fastened with gorilla glue.

Our entire family begins to make our way to the town square in complete silence, kicking up dirt and blowing dust off of town statues. There really are no happy people, save my father, in District 5. There are just very few deeply depressed people, but if there's one thing I know, is that we have no district morale. There are no town gatherings, or meetings, or parades. We all know our district sucks. What's to be happy about?

As we arrive, I'm given several weird looks. I look down to examine myself. There's really nothing out of the ordinary (for me), besides the fact that my long, straight, brown hair and similarly colored eyes clash terribly with my dress, and that the frock drapes off my tiny frame. Come to think of it, that's probably what those gossip-prone girls were looking at.

Our escort looks a bit more normal than last year. Last year, she had the word "five" tattooed in seventeen different languages all around her body. Those are gone, and replaced by the slightly less strange neon green hair and pink business suit. Her size is relatively normal, and aside from the eye-watering color, her suit is pretty average. She's better than some escorts I've seen on television.

"Alright, folks, let's get down to business. The ladies go first," the woman says. That's another thing about her; she gets down to business, and doesn't pretend like the reapings are a happy event. Career districts can pull that stuff, and some others try. But not ours.

I hold my breath and shift my weight from one leg to the other. I'm not worried that it will be me. I'm simply worried that it will be some poor, helpless twelve year old who will me immediately screwed the moment they enter-

"Faraya Argeneau, make your way on up here!" our escort calls, and I briefly choke on my own saliva. What?

_This cant be happening._

_This _isn't_ happening._

_Just calm down, walk up there, there's no avoiding it._

"Uhm, Faraya? Is she out there?" the lady calls, and the crowd clears a circle, all pointing at me. _Thanks, guys_.

My legs shaking, I somehow manage to begin to walk, panicked thoughts rolling like a tape through my head. I bite my lip and try not to cry, but make an even harder effort to not look at my parents. That would just be too painful, and I don't think I could handle it.

**Tobias Shinsky**

"Tobiaaaaas…. Toby let me _iiii-iiin…_" I hear someone coo, and my mind immediately jumps to Mr. Dillon, but of course, it's Bryony, tapping softly on my bedroom door. She was my second choice.

I roll over in bed and suppress a groan, not wanting Bryony to think that I was upset to see her. Girls are sensitive like that; I could cancel one date and she would jump to a million immediate conclusions, calling all of my friends to double check my "alibi". Bryony isn't usually like that, which is one of the reasons I like her, but she is female, and they really just can't help it.

"C'mon on, Bry-ony," I call, and I hear my door creak open, but not her feet tiptoeing across my floor, until it was too late. I hear her giggle-squeal happily, and then I feel her entire body slam into mine. Apparently, she thought it would be funny to body slam me.

"Ooof…" I grunt as she lands on me, still giggling. It's a good thing she's a thin thing, or else that would have hurt a lot more. Obviously, she thinks it hilarious, and even I can't help but think it's kind of cute.

"Hey babe," I say, knowing she'd eat the nickname up, and give her a little peck on the cheek. As I do so, my eyes flicker to one of the few clocks in the house (which I fought hard to have in my room), and my eyes grow wide.

"Bryony, we're going to be _late_," I mutter, and leap out of bed. I can just feel the atmosphere in the room grow sour as in the corner of my eye, I detect her bitterly throwing off her sheets. I sigh. Of course, it's me who totally screws up.

"I'm sorry baby, you know how the rules are," I say, and keep my head down. The peacekeepers shoot at you if you're late, but in her girl mind, that doesn't even matter. She's probably still pissed at me. She can be irrational like that sometimes. However, having a girlfriend is totally worth it. Not only do I really, truly like her, but it keeps my bisexuality under wraps.

I then hear the front door slam in the distance, and groan. It's probably Marcella, my older brother's new wife. I'm not really her biggest fan, and I'm not hers. She fancies herself superior to me.

I turn around to face Bryony, who has a sort of sympathetic look in her eyes. No matter how pissed she is, she can't stand seeing me "vulnerable". It's a motherly protection sort of thing, I think. Whatever it is, she knows who just walked in the front door. She walks to me and takes my hand, and we walk together to the front hall. Well, I'm walking; she's cheerily, awkwardly skipping and making an attempt to have me skip, too. _Not happening._

"Oh Toby, daaa_aaar_ling," my brother's wife exclaims, her voice dripping with sarcasm. I lift my hand in brief recognition, and she shoots me a look that just screams _you're dead._ I dodge past her to reach my brother, who I am much more happy to see.

I pause for a moment when I see him. He used to look just like me; tall and lanky, with brown eyes, golden hair, and an expressive face, but he's changed. His hair is almost white blonde from all of the sun exposure, his skin is tanner, and he's bulked up. Nevertheless, he's still my brother, and I run to him and give him a sort of a man handshake.

"Hey man, how you been?" I ask, and he nods, his eyes twinkling.

"Good man, good. Not for long, though. We have to get goin'," he says, and realizing that what he said is true, I bite my lip. I always hate the reapings; it's usually someone I know (but who doesn't know me) who gets reaped.

We all settle down, and Bryony and I get set walking, positioning ourselves purposely behind Marcella so she can't loudly and pointedly criticize our physique, as she is so very known for doing. We engage in smalltalk- boring, but time consuming- until we arrive. Bryony and I go to the same age group, but separate into different genders. We give each other little waves, and she collapses into her little group of friends, giggling and shrieking. I turn and pretend to be heading in a certain direction, but I really don't have any friends to go to. Normally I do, but everyone but Bryony pissed me off this week. I only hang out with people who aren't annoying to me at the moment.

The poor girl is reaped first. Our blindingly neon haired escort treated the girl as if she were some lucky winner, but she isn't as bad as some others I have seen on TV. At least she didn't say "congratulations". I might've wanted to punch her if she had.

I stand on my toes and looked to the adults section to find Mr. Dillon, but before I can, I am forced to pay attention as the boy tribute is drawn.

"Tobias Shinsky!" she calls, and I hear a collective gasp ripple through the crowd. My heart beats faster, and I think it is about to explode out of my chest. While my friends change week to week, I am well liked, and I hear a few cries, but I am only concerned with a few.

Two peacekeepers notice my hesitation and march over to me, taking each of my arms and propelling me towards the stage.

"Bryony…" I say, just loud enough for her to hear, wherever she is. Right on cue, I hear a muffled sob, and I look to my left to see Bryony, her golden hair shimmering, her pale cheeks pink from cold, and equally pink and teary eyes to match. Her friends are circled around her, and the reality of the situation begins to set in. Everybody knows that this could be the last time they see me alive.

* * *

><p><strong>I understand that you guys don't know who Mr. Dillon is… you'll just have to wait and see!<strong>

**The answer to the last question was District 9.**

**Q: What color was Caesar Flickerman's hair for the 74th Hunger Games?**


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